


Becoming something happy

by Bersenev



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Depiction of Suicide, Description of a Corpse, Ghost Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicide Attempt, Unreliable Narrator, but there will be fluff eventually, depression thoughts, it's dark, toxic thoughts and coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 03:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bersenev/pseuds/Bersenev
Summary: The last thing Connor wanted when he committed suicide was to come back as a ghost and yet here he was.





	Becoming something happy

**Author's Note:**

> TW: -Suicide -so many toxic thoughts they're everywhere -description of a corpse -puke - alcohol and drub abuse -possibly more?
> 
> This whole chapter is very very dark and the fanfic will probably stay that way for a while so if you're currently in a bad place or are generally not good with heavy themes like this please stay safe and don't read it.  
> That being said this fanfic in no way advocates suicide and if you're suicidal please talk to someone and get the qualified help you deserve.
> 
> On top of that a lot of the concepts and thoughts from Connor aren't healthy, at all. 
> 
> Please keep all of that in mind if you still decide to read this and I hope that if you do you're going to enjoy the suffering.
> 
> Also on a lighter note: The chapter title is a quote from the short film "Welcome to Hell" by Erica Wester

What was the first step towards happiness?  
  
It’s a question that has plagued him for years, that has kept him up at night unable to silence his mind that was trying so hard to find an answer towards this question he had already found an answer to long ago.  
  
There is no first step, because it wasn’t a goal he could achieve.  
  
That was the truth that was deeply engraved into his very being, written in his skin and his eyes and every breath he took. Every part of him was a testament to this truth, he was the living embodiment of it.  
  
So why was it that he, who was living this truth every day, he was still looking for an alternative answer, that he knew didn’t exist?  
  
From all the pain he had to endure, this hope he just couldn’t get rid of was the most painful.   
  
Time and time and time again he got his heart ripped out, shred to pieces and left on the floor for himself to pick up and put back together just because he wouldn’t, couldn’t adhere to the simple truth that his live was build upon.  
  
There is no first step, because it wasn’t a goal he could achieve.  
  
He was barely even a person as much as he was an empty shell filled with a kind of dark mist. It was heavy and dark and it oozed out of him just as much as the negativity around him flowed back into him. All the stares, the whispers, the guilt, the anger it all filled him, made him overflow at any given time.  
  
There is no first step, because he’s not something capable of feeling happiness. He’d have to become something happy, but he was a shell, it wasn’t his decision what was getting to linger inside him.  
  
He couldn’t do anything about the things that decided to take residence in his head and ate away at him until all that was left where them and the things they made him do and think and say. Or maybe he had been like that from the start, maybe it just took a while for it to reach every part of him. It didn’t matter either way, whether it was him or something that just lived in the shell that he was. The result would be the same.  
  
So why did it still hurt? If this was what he was meant to be then why did it still pain him? Made him want to end it?   
  
The things inside him screamed so loudly about how real they were, how they were everything there was and yet they urged for him to instigate their mutual destruction.   
  
If they wanted to leave so badly then why couldn’t they without taking the empty shell he was with them? Why couldn’t he get a chance to claim his insides for himself and reinvent them?  
  
Because he wasn’t worth it.   
Because without them he’d be nothing.  
It wouldn’t be different.   
He’d just end up prolonging the inevitable.  
Right.  
  
At least that’s what they told him and he believed it for the most part. The hope that they were still wrong remained however, a small flicker of a flame somewhere deep inside that refused to be extinguished. It was so small and yet it burned him like a wildfire and made him afraid of looking at it too long in fear of losing sight of the things that lurked in the dark.  
  
He tried to let it become stronger sometimes, hoped that maybe it could burn everything inside and cleanse him in some way but it never worked, never managed to do more than leave him with smoke in his lungs.  
  
The smoke became a constant companion despite that and the smell of it clung to his clothes like the darkness did to his mind.   
  
Connor huffs out his last laugh together with the last bit of smoke from the last joint he would enjoy in his miserable life.   
  
He hadn’t thought that finally giving the world what it wanted would make him start waxing pseudo poetic stuff about how much his life sucked. Who knew that trying to quiet the noise inside your head would make it become even louder.  
  
There was nothing comforting in the thought, but it made him feel at ease anyway. He’d allow himself this last moment of pretending to be something other than the mess that he was because at least being a pseudo poetic mess made him sound like there was something uniquely his own inside himself.  
  
Well, then again the pills he was about to take were technically his own too so something would join the poetry pretty soon.  
  
And wasn’t that amazing that he got to leave as the best version of himself?  
  
Filled with pills and poetry, truly the height of his miserable existence. Plus, Larry had always said that he’d never make something out of himself and wasn’t he just so wrong? Connor would make a truly amazing corpse out of himself and that had to count, right?  
  
Now, he’d love to keep on thinking about god and the world, but actually he really didn’t.  
  
Connor snubs out his joint and throws the rest of it somewhere behind him. Besides him on the park bench stands a bottle of truly horrible and expensive whiskey he had stolen from his fathers collection earlier in the day.  
  
He takes a big swig straight from the bottle and then another and another without stopping until his lungs couldn’t take it any more and he had to stop to take a deep breath.  
  
There was still plenty of it left, but that was fine since it had nearly served his purpose anyway.  
  
Now for the main event.  
  
A wry smile forms on his face as he pulls his pills out of his jacket pocket. They’re rattling in the bottle and it doesn’t make sense until he looks at his hands and sees them shaking.  
  
Traitors. He would do this, with or without his body’s consent.  
  
That thought in mind he starts dumping pills in his hands and swallowing them down with the whiskey until the pill bottle is empty and the alcohol makes his vision swim. His whole body feels warm and fuzzy and if he’s crying he chooses to ignore it because he wanted this.  
  
He wanted this.  
  
He stole the alcohol to upset his father and went through his mothers flowerbed while stepping on all her favourite flowers and took the letter of Evan Hansen with him because that would upset him and Zoe and he wanted all this.  
  
So why, why didn’t it feel good like his thoughts had promised him?!  
  
They had promised and all he got was the sound of someone whimpering and crying and glass shattering and he was cold and miserable.  
  
The feeling didn’t leave; it just got worse and worse and then it all faded to black and then there was darkness.  
  
  
For a while. There was darkness for a while.  
  
  
It stayed dark at first, but then it was only dark in the normal way most nights were dark.   
  
Death was the biggest, shittiest rip-off Connor had ever witnessed if he was quite honest, because how could it not be?  
  
In front of him was a small, shitty park bench full of the same shitty writing and pictures that adorned all park benches and on it was a shitty dead body and a shitty empty pill bottle together with a shitty broken bottle of whiskey.  
  
He barely even got to be properly dead!  
  
What did he kill himself for if he just came right back and then had to look at his own corpse and all the puke and booze and if he still had a stomach he would probably puke right now from the sight.  
  
Not being able to puke aside he still turned around. There was no way in hell he would keep looking at that, he’d just walk away from it, just like he walked away from life.  
  
Apparently his inability to walk away from things seemed to pattern however because after a few steps he couldn’t keep moving. He tried another direction and another and another and the result stayed the same. Whatever had brought him back seemed to want him to stay and if that wasn’t just the icing on the cake.  
  
The only reprieve his ghostly existence seemed to grant him was that time didn’t quite move the same for him as it had before, so it didn’t feel like several hours before some pedestrian found his body and called the police in a frantic voice that made Connor feel just a tad for him.  
  
But really only a bit because Connor was a fucking ghost and if there was anyone he should feel sorry for it was himself and not some dude that just had to look at his corpse for a moment.  
  
Granted, it was a pretty disgusting corpse but it was his corpse so he wouldn’t say too many bad things about it plus it wasn’t the corpses fault that it was so disgusting that was all on Connor.  
  
Who was still floating around and hating every moment of it and hated it even more when the police arrived and his body got taken away and the next thing he sees after they put it away was the door to his home.  
  
Or what used to be his home.   
  
He doesn’t want to go inside but it’s the only direction he can move in so he relents; let’s death push him around so maybe he manages meeting whatever criteria he needs to meet to finally die for real.  
Even if that means seeing his mother pick up the phone and start crying immediately.  
  
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe death was worse than living.


End file.
